


Prize Fight

by DarkPanda



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Indentured Servitude, Loss of Virginity, Naive Victim, Rape, Vaginal Sex, brief glimpse of m/m anal rape, pit fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPanda/pseuds/DarkPanda
Summary: Gabby intended to sell herself into the service of Lord Fowler to get medical care for her ailing father, but she didn't realize exactly what that would mean.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Prize Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags! If rape/breeding smut is not your thing, this isn't for you.

When Gabby had sold her service to Lord Fowler, she hadn't expected to end up in a pit. Everyone in the lower city talked about the Fowler house and its rooms and rooms full of plump, pampered servants, all with the pale hair and pale eyes that looked so good in the Fowlers' green-and-brown livery. Everyone talked about the fine parties that the Fowlers threw at least twice a season in the city, and how they had an even bigger house in the country with even bigger parties, and how much fine food was served and how there was so much left that even the servants got fat from eating the leavings.

When papa came down with cough in the winter that held on into spring, everyone said he’d be dead by summer. A family so far down the hill couldn't afford a barber for a bad tooth, much less a doctor and tonics for a bad cough. Gabby's siblings were fair and pretty, as far as lower-city people went, but none were as beautiful as Gabby. And no one else was old enough to go into service without a parent's permission, which they wouldn't get from papa.

So Gabby put on her nicest blouse and skirts, and her only pair of town shoes, and she went up the hill to the servants' drive to the Fowler house. She told the man by the door that she was looking to go into service. He went inside briefly, then reappeared and told her that the housekeeper would see her. He didn't look back to see if Gabby followed him in.

He led Gabby through a tiled hall with the highest ceiling Gabby had ever seen. The floor was so clean, and the people bustling around were so elegant that she could barely believe they were servants.

The housekeeper had a small little office by the pantry. She was an old woman with a pinched face and hair that had gone from blonde to a dirty-dishwater gray-yellow with age. She had very pale eyes, which swept Gabby up and down. “You want to go into service?”

Gabby looked at the floor. “Yes ma'am, my papa needs a doctor.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen ma'am.”

The housekeeper hummed. “Well, you have the right look. You're a little petite, but we had a kitchen girl run away, so we have at least one place. Not that that's where I promise you'll end up, mind. I'm Miss Fuller.”

Gabby’s heart pounded so hard she almost couldn't hear. “Any work is fine with me, ma'am, as long as I get medical for my family.”

The housekeeper’s bony hands plucked a thick sheet of cream-colored paper out of a drawer. “Can you read?”

“No ma'am.”

Miss Fuller set out the paper on her cluttered little desk and pointed at the dark, squiggling lines. “This is a standard service contact for a family's medical needs. It says here that you are selling ten years of your service to Lord Fowler. His family will see to your necessities. That means fed, clothed, and so on. This part here says medical care for your family for the duration of the service. Give me the names to fill in.” Gabby did. “And this part here says that you've signed it or made your mark of your own free will, and that all of your labor and anything you produce in the next ten years belongs to Lord Fowler or his heirs. This last part says if you run off, you're on the wrong side of the law, and you or your family owe double service without compensation.”

Gabby didn't really follow all of that, but it didn't matter. The only part that mattered to her was medical care for her family. “Yes ma'am.”

Miss Fuller took the creamy sheet back and filled in Gabby's name at the bottom, Gabby made her mark beside it, and that was that. She was now in service to Lord Fowler.

The housekeeper's thin, dry lips pressed to a line. “Clean up in the basin out back. Be liberal with the soap. I'll find you some decent shoes, and we'll see where Lady Fowler wants me to put you.”

Gabby looked down at her battered shoes. She didn't say that she’d already scrubbed to come here. She was supposed to do as she was told, now, so she went and found the basin.

When Gabby came back in, Miss Fuller stood and led Gabby deeper into the house. They went through a narrow, almost hidden door into a truly opulent room. Carpet was thick underfoot, and there was so much silver and glass and crystal and fine furniture that Gabby didn't know where to look but at her own feet.

She did look up when Miss Fuller started to talk, but one glimpse of the fine lady, lounging on a piece of furniture Gabby had no name for, sent her eyes right back to her shoes while Miss Fuller talked over her head.

“Look up and stand straight,” the Lady commanded in an urbane dialect. Gabby did so.

The Lady looked Gabby over like a dead fish, then declared, “She’s too tiny for kitchen work. Look at those puny arms. And she’s too short for a housemaid, she'll throw off all the proportions. But the shape of her face is, well, I can see why you took her on, Candace. She's truly striking. Ten years of service, you said? Give her to the breeders, I'll be curious to see what they can do with her lines.”

“Yes, my Lady. Come on, girl.” Miss Fuller pulled Gabby back through the narrow door by her arm.

“I don't understand?”

Miss Fuller gave Gabby a pitying look. “You sold your service to Lord Fowler. He owns ten years of your life, your work, and anything you produce.” She spoke very slowly, as if Gabby was simple. “Lady Fowler has decided that you'll be producing babies.”

It was really too late for hysterics, but Gabby spent a good long time in them anyway. They firmly but not unkindly put her in a little room in a house attached to the stable. She screamed and cried, she even threw a pewter pitcher at a girl who came in to give her food, but no one seemed to care. They asked her very rude questions about her private business, most of which she didn't know how to answer.

Gabby was in the room for three days before they put her in a pit. A fighting pit, to be exact. Like the rings men made on the docks to fight chickens.

She was shoved into a high-walled wooden ring, floored with sand over the boards. The sand-covered floor was lit from above by buzzing arc lamps that were so bright they hurt to look at. It smelled like old blood and the smoke from the spectators’ cigars. The pit's single door closed after a couple of naked men came through. They looked almost like cousins, both very tall and fair-haired, though one was older and more wiry with a smashed nose, and the other was younger and burly with a square jaw.

The crowd roared wagers. Gabby crouched against the rough board wall, feeling every splinter against her flank through her thin shift. When she glanced up, all she could see in the shrouding smoke were gleaming eyes and the cherries of cigars.

The two men didn't come for her. They started slugging and grappling each other in the middle of the ring. They seemed to do their best to beat each other to death while people shouted encouragement and placed bets on who would win and whether the other would die, get knocked out, or yield. The shouts almost drowned out the grunts and thuds from the combatants. Almost.

With a powerful yell, the younger man flipped the older one onto his back on the sand, and Gabby crabbed away along the wall, trying not to get crushed. There was a roar, and the older man flipped the younger right over and off him, then got his arm around the young man's neck. Muscles stood out like wires in his arms as he squeezed. The choking young man tried to jam his head back into the older man's battered face, but his head didn't connect. His nails clawed ribbons of blood into the wiry arm, but rather than giving way, the muscles flexed tighter. The first time the young man sagged, he tried to surge up a moment later, but the older man seemed to know that trick and held on until he was well and truly limp.

The older brawler dropped the younger one to the sand. A chorus of groans and whoops rose from above the pit.

Then the flavor of the betting changed. “He's already hard. I'll give three to one on under five strokes.” “An old cock like that? I'll take you up, sir." "Who will call me on over thirty?” “She's a young thing and pretty as a picture, Lord Rowling, I'll call under thirty.” “What's the over-under on an even twenty strokes?” “Think he'll do her like a dog? He seems like a real animal.”

Darkness pressed the edges of Gabby's vision. She was breathing too fast. They were going to do it here? But of course they were going to do it here. Why else would she be in the pit.

“C'mere, moppet." The bloodied fighter gestured.

Gabby shook her head hard.

“It’s happening one way or another.” He spoke in a familiar cadence, strongly touched by the docks. “Don't make it harder on yourself.”

He gave her another moment before approaching her with balanced strides, his thing bobbing in a nest of curly pale hair. Gabby shouldn't have looked at it, it wasn't polite. But now she couldn't look away.

She tried to slide away from him along the wall, but somehow instead moved right into his bloody arms. The crowd roared.

He picked Gabby up and carried her with him down on the sand. He payed as much attention to her sobbing and screams and kicks as anyone else had up to that point. None at all. Above, in the haze of smoke around the arc lights, men and boys leaned over the railing, leering and gesturing and calling out things Gabby didn't want to hear. She closed her eyes and tried to squirm away.

The fighter leaned his arm on her chest, not so hard that she couldn't breathe but hard enough to keep her still. She felt him ruck up her little shift, and she pressed her legs tight together. With an annoyed sigh, he used his own knees to pry hers apart, and then he lay over her and his hard thing rubbed up and down against her privates. She choked, trying to tell him not to do it to her here with everyone watching, but he was already doing it to her. He pressed into her, spreading her tight places wide around him, filling her with pain and hard heat.

Gabby sobbed, but no one payed any mind. Worse, each time she sobbed, she felt her body squeeze him inside. She clutched his bloody arm as he rocked her on the sand. She had nothing else to hold on to, and the sand was chafing her back like a burn. The shouting spectators kept a count of how many times he thrust and filled her, but Gabby didn't. Her tears ran past her ears and into her hair, and she held on. And when it stopped hurting so sharply and stared to feel good, it still wasn’t right or okay.

After what felt like a very long time, the man shoved into Gabby so deep that he ground against the backs of both her legs and her rear like he was trying to follow his thing and climb inside her. In that shocked moment of hot pleasure and pain deep inside, and she felt him pulsing there. He pulled back one last time, and it was over. She was sore, and wet, and empty.

The bloodied brawler lifted off Gabby and offered a hand down to her. Under the roar of the crowd, he said, “Come on up, moppet. They aren't even watching anymore. Moved on to the next bit of blood and semen.”

Gabby hugged herself and didn't take his hand. He shrugged and bent down, lifting her bodily and slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of flour instead of a grown woman. He wasn't rough about it, and he even pulled her shift decent as he balanced her with one arm. Gabby let her cheek rest against his sweaty, sandy back, where it bounced little tears free with each step.

His rocking stride took them to the door, and Gabby saw what the new cheers and bets were about. Someone had set up stocks and the fallen young fighter had been strapped into them. Other brawlers had been let up from under the stable, and they jostled in a line, stroking their hard things. Gabby watched one of the men mount the man in the stocks from behind. He roared and jerked against the straps, and mocking jeers and new bets pelted down from the cloud of smoke.

Not all of the fighters were watching the man in the stocks. Two or three looked at Gabby so hungrily that she flinched.

The man carrying her gave her bottom a pat. “Don't worry about them, moppet. You're mine until I get a belly on you.”

He carried her into the cool darkness under the stables.


End file.
